


Till the end of the campaign…

by divine_sinner



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Drama, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divine_sinner/pseuds/divine_sinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>retelling the movie "The Hurt Locker"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Till the end of the campaign…

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [До смены роты осталось...](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/31040) by divine_sinner. 



Translated by GHOUL

Stilinski does not sort his stuff on arrival. All that he wants it to see light for a while. He is irritated with the windows apertures, hammered by plywood. And there is gritty road dust still on his teeth, though he has rinsed his mouth for couple of times.  
\- Sergeant Stilinski?  
Stiles sharply turned around to the source of voice.  
\- Welcome here! Expert for mines lifting, Jackson Whittemore, - the guy confidently gave a hand and openly smiled.  
\- Aha, would you help me? - Stiles pointed to the hammered plywood by inviting gesture.  
\- It protects us from night mortars bombardments – are you sure, that you want to remove them? – asked Jackson, but nevertheless approached to help.  
\- They anyway will not protect from the direct shot, and I love the sunlight too much, - Stiles opened the window and inhaled full chest of very hot air.  
\- And that is true, - Jackson agreed and looked around. - Is it your “hurt locker”?  
\- Not your business, where the commander? Derek Hale, apparently, - Stilinski pushed the plastic box far under the bed.  
\- He is in the HQ now, should be back soon.  
\- Well, let us walk through the territory, you will show me, what’s up here, - Stiles pulled out dirty T-shirt, threw it to the floor and started digging in the bag. - I had no time to sort stuff yet, but still have some.  
It looks more as the justification, but, to be honest, Jackson was not giving a damn.  
Sixty six days, sixty six fucking days and he will come back home. To Lydia.

*  
The sun burns as if it wants to incinerate all the flesh. At the entry to the city hot haze is slurring outlines of Baghdad. The sight catches only some minarets propping up the pure blue sky.  
\- Welcome to the shit, - said Derek, meeting Stiles for the first time. It does not sound inspiring, but it’s truth. - Stilinski, I hope, that before the termination of campaign you and I will stay alive and will come back to civilian life without serious mutilations.  
\- Right you are, commander, you will be safe with me, - smiled Stiles in return and reached for the cigarette.  
\- You are dead man, if you are in Iraq.  
It is impossible to find Whittmore behind the turret, only his feet are visible.  
\- Shut up, Jackson, and watch the site around. We shall communicate HQ and specify the quadrant which sent the inquiry on sappers, - Derek licked his cracked lips. Humvee is going slowly and it allowed the estimation of conditions.  
Conditions sucked, to be honest. There were too much people in streets, and following everyone was hard. To keep an eye at more than five or six persons will not be possible by Whittmore. And there are children playing nearby the abandoned scrap metal warehouse.  
\- Just wanted to say that I sympathize with that has occurred to the senior sergeant Harris, I am sure that he used to be the excellent sapper, - said Stiles, all over turning to Derek. He is rolling a humbug in his mouth and blinks because of patches of sunlight, falling on the windshield.  
\- That’s it, sergeant Stilinski. He was absolutely fucking awesome sapper, - the voice of Whittmore sounds deafly and angrily, - and he gave the sacramental promise that after seventy one day all of us will come back home. And he is that asshole who has not kept his own promise.  
\- Absolutely right – awesome sapper and an asshole, - shortly confirmed Hale and reached for a walkie-talkie.  
When Derek communicated with HQ, Stiles started to whistle ‘Californication’, ticking a rhythm on a knee. It calms him down.  
\- What are you doing? – asked Jackson, jumping down on the seat.  
\- I am adjusting for the work, - Stiles slightly opened the door and spitted out sweet viscous saliva.  
\- Well, adjust for you work silently, - offered Hale.  
\- As you wish, commander, - winked and easily agreed Stilinski.  
Only now Stiles noticed thin straight scar over the right eyebrow of the commander.  
“Splinter, probably”, - he thought and continued to sing silently lines from the song clung in the mind still after the trip.  
When they approached the probable quadrant, Stiles fell out from the humvee first and exhaled with relief:  
\- Yeah…  
\- The Princess is heavily enduring the heat? – was said derisively from the left.  
Stilinski put aside a middle finger – that’s how he gets acquainted with the senior sergeant of marines, Chris Argent.  
\- I am adapting quickly, so don’t worry about my ass, - broadly smiled Stiles, when Chris strongly pressed his palm in salutatory gesture.  
\- Leave the flirting away, - Derek interrupted them. – What is going on here?  
\- Informant has reported that somewhere twenty meters to the east from the mosque he saw wires in a heap of garbage. I am totally assured that it’s the job for you, - Chris pointed towards the narrow alley - there are many people and Derek is not pleased by this congestion at all. He ordered Jackson to disperse curious crowd.  
\- Cover us from above, - ordered he to Argent and walked quickly back to the humvee.  
\- I go, - Stiles pulled out the jacket from his shoulders and threw another humbug into the mouth. He is already feeling gaggy from sweetness enveloping the mouth palate. But it is better than swallowing bitter saliva rising across a throat each time when you come nearer to a mine.  
\- What? No way. We will use the robot first and then estimate conditions, - Hale objected.  
\- Nope. Let's put a suit on me to sort it out quickly.  
When Derek was putting the helmet on Stiles and fixed telecom, he said that Stilinski has a lot of freckles.  
\- You haven’t yet seen my back, commander, - noticed Stiles impudently.  
\- Good luck, we will cover you, - promised Derek and occupied the position behind concrete collars along the road.  
\- Let’s cut loose, - heard Hale the vocal murmur of Stilinski in the walkie-talkie and grasped the gun handle more strongly.  
Stiles confidently went to the place shown by the where sergeant Argent. He noticed the agitation at top floors of houses and said:  
\- Sometimes it seems to me that I will choke in this suit before I will neutralize a mine.  
Then he threw smoke candle behind himself and disappeared in the smoke cloud.  
\- Holy shit, what are you doing, Stilinski?! Whittmore, do you see him? What happened? Shit! - Derek pulled up and climbed on the gate. Visibility here was better and it was possible to make out the figure of Stiles through slowly dissipating smoke.  
\- Seems like he threw the smoke candle, - said Jackson.  
His voice shivers, and he really looks frightened. As if it is for the first time.  
\- Hey, everything under control, commander. It was just the dummy maneuver.  
Derek can swear that he hears a smile in Stilinski’s voice and at this very second he wants to strangle by own hands this new sergeant, who imagined himself as the fucking superhero.  
\- Fuck those dummy maneuvers. How many meters you are from the probable mine planting place?  
\- I do not know, Derek, but all is under control, - said Stiles, - holy crap, how hot it is!  
\- The blast wave will go upwards along the street, hide behind the corner, all! Sappers group is dealing with the situation, - Hale shouted loudly.  
It seems to Stilinski that he feels the hot soil under soles of his boots, though it is certainly bullshit. He kneels noticing two wires, accurately weaved together. In a heap of garbage, among polyethylene packs outlines of poorly hidden mine can be easily seen.  
\- I found it, - he said in a walkie-talkie, carefully lying down on the ground.  
\- Be careful, - said Whittmore and keeps a bead on two suspicious men on the second floor. Blood is thumping monotonously in temples and Jackson heavily swallows saliva.  
\- Hi, baby, I’m all yours, - whispered Stiles, slowly removing the garbage around the mine. It seems to him that he hears accruing noise, but it always happens to him before the work starting. Therefore he does not distract and tries to pull out the basic charge as carefully as it is possible. Stiles started to breathe slower and felt his neck slippery from sweat.  
\- That’s it, gotcha, - he said in the walkie-talkie, cutting off wires, - by the way, commander Hale, congrats on the first try.  
\- Good job, come back, - the voice of Derek sounds confidently and Stilinski smiles, lifting the visor at the helmet upwards.  
\- Damn. - Stiles wiped sweat from a forehead by the dirty glove.  
\- What the hell?  
\- Stand still, I have another wire here. Hey, where are you going? – he pulled a wire upwards and carefully tracked the wire. In a second he reported through the walkie-talkie:  
\- Minor charge.  
\- Fuck! All for a wall! - Hale ordered and, opening the door of the humvee wide, came in the defensive position.  
Eight wires are running from the basic wire, joining in the kinky star earthed at the low depth. He pulled them upwards.  
Stiles pulled out basic charges serially and cut wires. He had his heart boomingly knocking and felt, apparently, that now he can distinguish breath of the commander and expert: Derek has deep and equal sound, and Jackson’s breath is skipping and superficial, that irritates. Though Stiles also can not exclude the possible mistake.  
With the fifth mine some Iraqi jumped out from the opposite house. He is pale and has the phone in hands. Stiles freezes in semi-movement and lifts a palm with the basic charge, clamped in it. He slowly swings his head and desperately wants to believe that today, on the first day of his service on a new place, he will not be pulled apart to hell, and he still will have possibility to show commander Derek Hale, how fucking many freckles he has on his back.  
The man freezes for an instant moment opposite Stiles and then flies to run, disappearing behind the gate, where the laughter of children and barking of dog were heard.  
Stilinski lowered his hands heavily and grinned. He finishes the work and lies down on the ground, trying to pacify breath.  
He went back, broadly smiling, but the commander does not look cheerful at all.  
Derek pulled out the suit as if he wanted to tear off some part of Stilinski as well.  
\- Commander, take it easy, - grinned Stiles.  
\- When I ask to listen to me you are to listen to me! You endanger all of us. I am your commander and you are obliged to execute my orders! - Hale seized by the death grip into the collar of wet T-shirt of Stiles and pulled it on himself. – No more dummy maneuvers and decisions taken without the personal coordination with me, got it, sergeant Stilinski?  
\- Yes, sir, - agreed Stiles and pushed Derek away aside bending to the ground due to emetic spasms.  
\- Shit, Jackson, give some water here.  
Stiles spitted out viscous saliva and winked away appeared tears. He came to thought that it would be quite good not to vomit out guts in front of Hale. Stiles believed, that he will not appraise it.  
Derek fell on one knee in front of him and helped to rinse his mouth. He poured water on a shaven head of the sergeant. Stilinski will certainly thank him, when he will be able to breathe without rattles.  
\- You have worked perfectly today, but do not screw me anymore, - silently said Hale.  
\- Aha, - Stiles sat down on the ground and asked Jackson to light a cigarette for him.  
\- After a smoke-o we come back to base, we have to report to the HQ, and you need rest after the trip, - Derek shoved the suit away into the trunk of the humvee and still kept frowning.  
\- Nice job, chap, - Argent sat down close to Stiles and also lit a cigarette.  
He has light blue eyes and pleasant smile, but Stilinski had absolutely no forces to support easy conversation, and he nods almost on all remarks of Chris.  
\- I want a shower, - whispered Stiles and went to the humvee, not saying goodbye to the senior sergeant of marines.  
On the way back to the base, Stilinski thinks that his head now weighs more than half a ton. Fuck.  
\- The scar over your eyebrow, - started Stiles.  
\- Splinter, - answered Derek, not moving a sight from dusty road.  
\- There are sixty five days till the end of campaign, - Whittmore started to tear off dark inveterate stain, looking as dried blood, from his sleeve.  
\- Only sixty five, - agreed Stilinski and closed eyes.

*  
Doctor Deaton talks a lot to Whittmore. Though Stiles thinks that doc spends time with it for nothing. Stilinski listens to them inattentively and was looking at the dark screen of the TV. He is catching Jackson's phrases where there is not enough optimism and belief in the best. He hears:  
\- Be polite with everyone. Remember – everyone are armed, - doc explains the simple truth to him, holding a shoulder of Whittmore.  
\- Aha, while we will fawn upon them, we will catch the bullet. And as a result we will keep silence, but after all it will still be considered as politeness? – sassed Jackson and swallowed bitter viscous saliva, - it is war. People die here every day. I can be lost as well. I can not come back home. Lydia … she, damn… She was totally against this contract. And I … fuck you!  
Jackson impulsively jumps from his place, squats in front of the doctor and whispers with whistling:  
\- And if I become an invalid? You think she will keep me?  
\- Certainly, Jackson, she loves and waits for you. Stop thinking only about death. Make a switch. Think about your fiancée, about your shared future.  
Doc has the quiet voice and correct intonations, but it seems that he is messing up somewhere. Well, maybe, it is just so hard with Whittmore.  
\- Stop this shit, - he says and clasps his head with hands, - just don’t speak about Lydia. It is not necessary to mess her with all this shit that is happening here. Just remember, doc, all of us are the general statistics, and to think of other things is anyway impossible. Finally everything here, absolutely everything comes to that fucking “if”. That lonely “if” is not enough for me. You know, this guarantor is a piece of shit. At the least, I will die, fulfilling my duty. With the pride.  
Jackson sharply rises from his place and leaves without turning back.  
Stiles smiles to doc when he notices his sight and welcomes with the opened palm.  
“Shitty day, doc?  
Oh, shit happens”.

*

In the street the sun is still burning and one would want to drink any time due to hot dry air, but Stilinski has already got used.  
\- Hey, bro, wanna buy a cool disk? Well, come on, you gonna like it.  
Stiles is sitting in a shade and watches the Iraqi boy. He is agile, brisk and talkative. Soldiers fob off from him as if he is an troublesome fly, but do not banish.  
\- What do you have? - asks Stiles, leaving the shade.  
\- Everything you want, - he gusty answers.  
\- How much?  
\- One for five, two for nine, - boy chatters quickly.  
\- Three for twelve? - Stilinski grins. Simple arithmetic.  
\- For thirteen and without tax, - he is not lost with the answer. Simple market relations.  
Stiles grins and nods with agreement, they go to the tent where tens of disks are lying on a self-made table.  
\- Give me the best.  
\- Here’s the best, - boy puts a disk into hands of Stiles and smiles with satisfaction.  
\- Leave the change.  
\- Thanks, bro.

*

There are forty seven days till the end of campaign.

\- I hope, today you will work, obeying to my orders, - told Derek, tightening belts on the suit of Stiles.  
\- I will work, as usual, and you will soon get used, - he answered.  
\- You can put your habits into your ass, sergeant Stilinski. I am not going to repeat.  
Evacuation signal can be heard some quarters away. Female shouts are mixed up in one rhythmic rumble. Sounds come inside the protection suit of Stiles a bit muted; he moves behind the wall and remembers for some reason the boy, whom he saw in the morning. He realizes that has forgotten to ask his name. Next time I will do it – he promises to himself.  
At the probably mined car the suspension bracket is really bent. He raises a hand, giving a sign to the commander and Whitmmore, following him at the humvee, to stop.  
Stilinski almost approaches the car when suddenly someone shots from the west side, and car immediately inflames. Somewhere behind him the quick squirt is shot and orders of the group commander are heard.  
\- Shit! – Hale shouted in the walkie-talkie. - Demolition man, are you reading me? Stiles! Take the fire extinguisher, quick!  
\- What’s wrong? - echoed Jackson, trying to find out from shelter, what has occurred.  
\- Come on, - Stilinski bends over the wall, lifts the visor at the helmet and tries to get the fire extinguisher, taking it away from hands of Whittmore.  
\- I go upwards, - said Jackson hastily, but Stiles breaks:  
\- Away, you! Commander Hale, cover me!  
\- Certainly.  
Derek darts off and runs on the roof of the building. Stilinski extinguishes the burning car and listens to the abrupt breath of the commander, heard in the walkie-talkie.  
He had to open the car trunk by the tire lever – but the heap of useless metal does not want to be opened. After several blows it opens at last. Lever falls down from his hands with deaf knocking noise.  
\- It’s clear at the top. What do you have? - Derek looks at the bead of the machine gun couple of civilians, standing on the minaret.  
\- he is taking out the protective suit, - answers Jackson, feeling accruing pressure in his neck and muscles. His shoulder is aching, but he does not dare to change position.  
\- What? What the hell is he doing again?  
\- I do not know, commander.  
Stiles approaches to the wall and gives the helmet to Whittmore.  
\- There it is so much explosive that we all will become a minced meat, so if we die, let us do it with conveniences. I need my earphones.  
\- What you have?  
\- Commander, cover my back, I will take earphones, - said Jackson instead of the answer.  
Stiles came back to the car with earphones. He was lighting for himself with a torch and spoke aloud:  
\- I see many wires. I am looking for fuse system.  
Sergeant Stilinski opened the back door and started to check methodically seats, cutting cloth lining with the knife and tearing foam rubber.  
\- Back seats – nothing, front seats – nothing, door – nothing, floor – nothing, - he sighed heavily and put hands inside the glove compartment, carefully palpating everything and found nothing.  
\- If it is not in the car then it may be under, - said Derek.  
\- No, wires run into the car, fuse must be somewhere here, - Stiles imagined, that bitter sweat is eroding the skin under his camouflage.  
\- Hey, commander, - Jackson's voice appeared in the walkie-talkie.  
\- What?  
\- Do you see the guy with the camera on the opposite building?  
\- Yeah.  
\- Why the hell is he shooting me? - Jackson shouts, pointing the bead on the possible enemy.  
\- Holy crap! Don’t act like a moron, Jackson. Lydia is waiting for you, - Derek is begging, changing the position, - I will keep a bead on him, watch the Stilinski.  
Whittmore answers nothing, but changes the direction of machine gun.  
Stilinski burns his finger-tips trying to open a car hood.  
\- What is he doing there?  
\- Damn, I have no idea what is he doing. Maybe, he checks the oil level, - Jackson is not pretending for hiding the stress in his voice.  
\- Fuck-fuck-fuck! - said Stilinski through clenched teeth when one more wire leads not to the fuse.  
\- What’s there, Stiles? - Derek is keeping the sight on civilians on the minaret and the guy with a video camera.  
\- Nice here, - he answers deceptively and easily.  
\- We are here for a long alreafy. It is time to get out of here.  
\- Roger that, I just need to finish, - Stiles picks out old radio receiver from the panel.  
\- Too much spectators here, sergeant Stilinski, - said Hale with the threat, though understanding that it can somehow concert that son-of-a-bitch who thinks that he is the chosen one. – Are you reading me?  
\- Oh, fuck…! - Stiles hisses and pulls out earphones from his head, throwing them to the ground. - I heard you, - he grins with evil smile.  
\- Jackson! Tell him that evacuation of people is finished, operation is over.  
\- Sergeant, evacuation is finished, - Jackson shouts, looking out behind the wall.  
Stiles is habitually putting out the middle finger from the slightly opened window and goes back to work. He puts his palm into the niche of the radio receiver and feels the broken panel wall, and at last he finds the fuse system there. Stiles tears off wires with the short snicker, which sounds like coughing.  
\- That’s it, I finished, - he reports after leaving the car, - commander, let’s leave.  
Sergeant Stilinski comes back to the humvee, breathing heavily. He throws to the back seat the tire lever, full set of screwdrivers and voraciously drinks warm water from the bottle.  
\- It was quite good, - he said, lighting the cigarette.  
\- You had your suit on? - It is heard from behind, but Stiles does not turn around, playing with the cut off wires, stuck together by the tape.  
\- Sergeant, you have visitors here, - Jackson said, stacking the protection suit into the trunk.  
\- You were in the burning car?  
\- That’s exactly true, colonel Reed.  
\- You are crank, - he answers with a wide smile, - tell me, what’s the best way to defuse the bomb?  
\- Having no victims, - Stiles answers.  
\- Good answer, sergeant, - colonel Reed strongly shakes his hand, and asks to go on working that way before leaving.  
Stiles one more time tries to reach the cigarette, left on the panel of humvee.  
\- Sergeant Stilinski, - a voice of commander Hale is heard from the back.  
He has no time to turn around completely when the fist runs into his jaw. The cigarette falls somewhere on the ground, and head starts the disgusting thumping and dull ache in temples starts.  
\- I just express my admiration together with the colonel, sergeant Stilinski. And that was my fucking gratitude, - he speaks and goes to the driver's seat.  
Stiles open his mouth wide, kneading the jaw, and bends to the ground with the lost sight – looking for the fallen cigarette.

*  
In the evening Stiles spends more than half an hour in a shower. He is looking to lower lip, slightly swelled up and thinks with detachment that after a little time he and commander Hale will at last work well together. They should work well together.  
He did not notice Derek even when he stands close to him. Only after the water in the nearby sink started running, Stiles at last distracts from his thoughts and starts looking at the commander.  
His hips are wrapped up in a quite small towel. Terry fabric leaves not enough opportunity for imagination and Stiles is amused by this thought. He wants to share his bath towel, but is not sure that it will be pertinent.  
\- Problems, Stilinski? - He asks tensely, not trying to cover himself, but it is clear that he feels uncomfortable under the stared gaze of Stiles.  
\- Not really, - he answers ambiguously. He is looking at the skin of the left leg, which is crippled by scars from calve and above.  
\- Land mine, - tells Derek, answering the unasked question, - almost two years ago, - he explains for some reason.  
Stilinski remembers from the childhood how his mom was braiding the dough in hard plaits, cooking another special recipe pie. Yeah, Stiles always had sick associations.  
But it seems impossible to take away a sight from traces of rough seams and white creeping scars of carved skin.  
Derek broke his slackjaw condition:  
\- This, - he touches lower lip of Stiles with damp fingers, - you deserved.  
And he left without turning around.

*

Stiles plays with wires stuck together by an insulating tape, touches the lower lip which already healed for a long time already and thinks that he got a jerk with conclusions: commander Hale is a rock which is impossible to move forward. Even for him. It does not upset him, not at all. To lose hope here is a mad thing. We still have time.

At night he dreams about Erica. She is sixteen and she is slightly smiling to him, lying on his knees. She has pale lips and deep shades under her eyes. Suddenly stains of blood appear at her white T-shirt, becoming bigger and bigger. Stiles is pressing his hand to her wound, trying to suppress blood, but he is afraid to lift her T-shirt and to find out that he can do nothing to it. Erica used to say that he is the whole world for her. Stiles cries for some reason, clasping her cold hand.  
He quickly wakes up, rapidly opening his eyes as if he did not sleep at all. He thinks that he has rather scary dreams at night. Everything is all right with Erica. Isaac promised to look after her, and he shall constrain his promise – their wedding is in a month. Stiles promised to come to see the celebration - though it hardly will be possible. But he does not want to think beforehand.  
Behind a window the pale yellow dawn is engaged. And Stilinski still did not close his eyes, and he is thinking now, would Erica’s hair fade here, in Bagdad, to light-straw color? But to be fair, he does not want to know it at all.

There are twenty nine days till the end of campaign.

\- You screwed me, - Stiles catches the brisk boy against his thin wrist, forcing to distract from the soccer game, - give back my five bucks.  
\- What? What five bucks, are you crazy? - He snaps back and moves back with indignation.  
\- You sold me the hogwash. You said it’s the best disk? Well, I even could not make out the Batman in this skipping and disappearing picture.  
\- Slow down, hey, - the boy appeared to be brave. - Well, you wanna me to get something more interesting, I can find any porn.  
Stiles laughs loudly, going to tell that the Batman, once again rescuing the Gotham city, will be cooler than any porn, but stealing the boy’s ball instead.  
\- What’s your name?  
\- Beckham.  
\- Like soccer player, eh?  
\- Yeah, but I play better than he does, - he smiles with winking.  
\- Well, let’s do it like this: if you can keep the goal I will give you five more bucks, if not - I will take away you ball. Deal?  
\- Yeah, - he agrees easily.  
\- Come on, protect the goal.  
Stiles smiles and watches how attentively boy looks at his feet. Stilinski kicks a ball, hoping that dummy maneuver will work and Beckham will muff a ball, but he was really sharp and fast – he caught a ball at the edge of improvised goal – bricks, placed on a distance from each other on the dry cracked ground.  
\- Damn! - Stiles tried to score one more goal, but the boy was again faster.  
\- My five bucks, - he asks cockily.  
\- You’re really playing better than Beckham, - Stiles laughs, taking the wrinkled fiver from the pocket, – you could place in professional Junior league.  
\- I know, - he answers proudly, - and you are the sapper?  
\- Yes.  
\- That’s cool, well it’s nice and great, yeah? - Beckham looks serious speaking about it.  
\- Yes… probably, - agrees Stilinski with doubt.

*

\- How are you? - doc greets Jackson, tapping on his shoulder, kind of friendly gesture saying that all of us here are equal – you’re my bro, that’s the point.  
\- Fine, - he answers, shortly smiling.  
\- You know, the war is the unique life experience after all, - doctor Deaton tells it to the Whittmore who is still digging in the engine of humvee and, seemingly, is not going to give up such an interesting action even for the sake of doc.  
Stiles smiles and waits Jackson to advice him to get lost somewhere together with these conversations about experience which can shoot his life away.  
\- Really? You know it by your personal war experience? – he sardonically answers and leaves, not waiting for an answer, throwing the oiled rag to the ground.  
Stilinski sympathetically smiles to Deaton.  
“Still shitty day, doc?”  
“All the year here, in army, is shitty day, doc. You forgot about it?”

*

The desert creaks on teeth of Stiles by its hard sand. Dry hot wind is blowing, because of the wind lips are cracking and throat feels chocking, and to swallow or to cough it out is impossible.  
Stilinski is keeping silent all the way – and it is strange, Derek already got used to listen to his non-stop chatter. Jackson was also walking very quiet for some past time and was not mentioning in his every phrase the inevitable death, that will overtake him if he will not be careful all the time.  
\- I see the civilian car and four armed men, insurgents, probably, - tells Derek catching the movement at the left, - okay, we are stopping. Be careful, guys. And, Stiles, no heroism, and you, Jackson, will keep an eye on him.  
\- Certainly, - Whittmore immediately agrees. Derek is not waiting any answer from Stiles.  
\- Lay down your arms! Knees! Stick your hands up! - Hale slowly approaches to men, - unfasten your holster. Whittmore, cover me!  
\- Should I lift my hands or unfasten my holster? – asks the man with head and face covered by the scarf.  
\- Holster first, - orders Derek as an answer, - and do it slowly.  
Stiles is holding people standing near the car on a bead and estimates in the mind chances of the favorable outcome of possible fight.  
Captain Hale approaches closer and takes the weapon away from the stretched hand of man, immediately coming some steps back.  
\- Now I can put hands down?  
Hale nods. Stiles is standing few steps away from Derek and pants – fucking wind is lifting sand, that disturbs them very much.  
\- Guys, we are friends, - speaks man, pulling the scarf away from head.  
\- My Gosh, - Stilinski exhales, lowering his rifle.  
\- Oh, guys, you are wrought up, - he smiles and shortly introduces himself as Duke.  
\- It is not a picnic, ladies. What are you doing here?  
\- Flat tire. Would you help?  
\- Certainly. Any spare wheel? - asks Stiles and waves to Jackson to come closer.  
\- Yes, we have spare, but no wrench, - tells Duke and then starts to introduce other guys, - Hera re Matt and Boyd.  
\- How come?  
\- And here is Bobby who has lost the key, throwing it to someone, - Duke points to the man who has his head covered by red kufiyah.  
Stiles laughs, and Derek passing by Bobby, speaks:  
\- don’t you know that you can shoot people instead of throwing tools to them.  
\- Fuck you, - he doesn’t leaving the favor unanswered.  
Jackson brings the wrench from the humvee, giving it to men and leaving aside. He looks at captives with sacks at their heads, not taking his finger out from the trigger.  
\- Who are your captives? - Stiles approaches closer and looks into their faces: they narrow their eyes and greedily drink water, given by the guy called Matt.  
\- I picked them up in Najaf. This is a bargaining chip, and this one even better, - Duke points to men one by one and hardly keeps his smile - yes, this dude has definitely hit the jackpot.  
\- How long are you here? - Derek is asking, attentively watching at captives.  
\- No idea, - Duke answers, - and how many time left to you?  
\- Expert, how many?  
\- Twenty eight, short of today, - Jackson, their goddamned personal counter immediately answers.  
\- We need to count, - notices Duke with a snicker. Then raising the voice he shouts to Matt:  
\- What the heck are you doing there so long?  
\- The wrench does not work, it is small.  
\- Look what we have in a jeep, - offers Stiles.  
He only has time to turn back again to Duke and Hale, when the shot banged behind the back. A series of shots.  
\- Enemy to the left, in the shelter! - Derek shouts and grabs the Key-man against his neck, dragging behind to ledges.  
\- Boyd, give the big gun here!  
\- Shit, my cargo does the bunk! We need to return them! I shall get five hundred thousand pounds for them, - Duke is shooting back, not aiming, and runs after captives.  
\- Fuck! Jackson, cover the Duke, - Stiles shouts, jumping into the shelter.  
\- Whom we are shooting?  
\- I don’t know, Whittmore! Just do your part, - Hale orders, shooting back. Red dust suspension is hanging before eyes – zero visual area, and everything he can do now is to rely on experience of previous battles and damned intuition which always fucks him.  
\- I forgot: cost does not change for them, dead or alive, - Duke laughs, recharging his gun in motion. He jumps in the middle between Derek and Stiles and immediately starts the action.  
\- They shoot from this building, - Stilinski points by his sight towards a single-deck brick structure where insurgents are hiding.  
\- I see nothing, - he answers and shoots at that direction without aiming. The bullet passes a bit above windows and gets to the foundation, showering him with crumbs.  
\- Two meters higher, - tells the Key-man to Duke.  
\- I’ll correct it, - he rearranges the rack and lingers too long, and finally gets a bullet into the neck. He falls back dead.  
\- Shit! - Boyd shouts, - Duke is dead. Matt, communicate the HQ.  
Stiles draws closer to Derek and, narrowing his eyes, looks into the hot haze, trying to make out the target.  
\- Breathe deeper. I see movement behind the roof edge.  
\- 850 meters to the target, - Stiles defines without errors.  
\- I see.  
\- Got it?  
\- Yes.  
\- It’s Alpha 9, we are under strong bombardment, commander is dead, - Boyd's voice is heard from the shelter.  
\- Roger that, Alpha 9, give your coordinates, - the answer is softly heard.  
Derek shoots and does not hit the target.  
\- More to the left, - advices Stiles.  
Hale aims one more time and shoots, but there is no sound of shot.  
\- No bullets, - Derek gives empty magazine to the Stilinski.  
\- Whittmore, no bullets.  
\- Where are they? I don’t know where they are, - Jackson looks around, pushes his helmet, slipping on the forehead, and tries to breathe calmly.  
\- Check up at dead man, - Stiles looks in the night-vision binocular again, licking sand from the cracked lips, exposed to the wind, and then speaks:  
\- I will shit sand soon.  
Derek answers nothing.  
Jackson finally finds the magazine soiled in blood of dead Duke, and gives it to Stiles.  
\- Here you are.  
Derek inserts the magazine and tries to reload, but fails.  
\- Fuck! Clear these bullets.  
\- Jackson, it is necessary to wipe blood from bullets, - Stiles hangs down and gives the box.  
Whittmore takes the magazine, his fingers shiver and fucking helmet closes the view. He rubs bullets and does not want to think of death. But it worth saying that it is difficult not to think of death that soars in hot dry air, removing the blood of killed person from the magazine.  
\- It is impossible, - his voice trembles and some pity rattle turns out instead.  
\- Spit on them and rub. Well, come on, sweetie.  
\- Damn!  
\- Wait, I’m here.  
Stiles jumps off and takes the magazine with bullets away.  
\- Look, you need just to take them out. Where is your drinking bowl? - Stilinski takes a hose and pours a little water to bullets, spits the viscous bitter saliva and cleans off blood and sand. Taste of someone’s blood is felt absolutely differently in the mouth – that’s nonsense, as if human blood has different tastes.  
\- How are you? - he asks the panting Jackson, - cheer up, ok? And look around. Listen, we will be alright, we will definitely kick asses of these bastards.  
It seems as if Stiles’ words really encourage Whittmore, he takes the defensive position and keeps an eye on the bridge located behind their backs.  
\- Kill that son of a bitch, - says Stiles, giving a magazine to Derek.  
Hale deeply inhales hot air and, after aiming, presses the ready trigger. One of insurgents falls from the roof.  
\- Minus one. Twenty meters to the right from the shelter.  
\- I see.  
\- You aimed?  
Instead of answer shot bangs, removing one more target. Stiles notices the movement in the window aperture.  
\- That window – two, maybe more. One in the right window.  
Derek shoots and seems to him that he hears the sonorous noise of the bullet sleeve, falling to the ground. He swallows the dust and again continues to look into the rifle sighting unit. Time is going to the infinity.  
Stilinski gets used to annoying flies tickling his face with their thin legs and do not stop buzzing for a single second.  
After a while Stiles asks Jackson to drink, and he throws to his feet the packaged juice.  
\- Drink, - Stilinski takes the drink to Hale lips and notices, that his long eyelashes have small red suspension settled on them.  
\- I don’t like this silence, - tells Derek, not stopping for a single second the tracking of windows apertures where one more insurgent left, as per their assumptions.  
\- Me too, - agrees Stiles.  
\- Stilinski! - voice of Whittmore is heard from the back.  
\- What?  
\- Movement behind your back, on the bridge, right on rails.  
\- So resolve this problem, - Stiles remembers no words in his contract about the necessity of babysitting colleagues.  
\- I must shoot? – there is uncertainty in Jackson's voice.  
\- You decide, cutie, - he speaks easy, not stopping to look around.  
The set of shots is heard from behind. Stilinski likes to hear bleating of scared goats, it is anyway better, than buzzing of flies, though he got used to it.  
\- Good job, Whittmore.

*

\- I have a blog, - the voice of Stiles becomes more deaf and even creaks sometimes, like not greased hinge of the door. He speaks about it so easily as if now it is a high time for it: just like friendly kick-back of bosom friends in a bar.  
\- Good for you, - Derek answers, not moving his sight from the planned target. It would be better if he would keep silent, like it was on the way to desert.  
\- Aha. I named it “Alfa Wolf".  
\- “Alfa Wolf”?  
\- Yeah, I just did not want to be one more dumbass, using words “soldier”, “army” or “war” in the name. Everybody anyway understands that we are at war here.  
Soldiers of today become well-known not because of their acts of bravery, but for Internet blogs where they tell everything they see around, “straight from the shoulder”. Well, kinda cool. Isn’t it? Surely cool.  
\- Shut up, - answers Hale with rattles.  
The sun on the horizon is painted in blood-red, merging with ginger desert in a whole entity.  
Stilinski wants to say that today red color was too much.  
\- That’s all, I think, captain Hale, - tells he instead and swallows the viscous saliva, mixed up with sand.  
They come back to the base before dawn.

There are twenty eight days till the end of campaign.

*

\- We need to check up the building, - Stiles goes first, his back is covered by Jackson – he trusts him; captain Hale is walking at the left flank, shoulder to shoulder.  
They quickly walk the ground floor quickly. At the second floor, somewhere in the end of the corridor some teapot persistently whistles.  
\- Shit! I run forward, - Stilinski looks into each corner of this abandoned school building – threat is hiding everywhere. They pass the corridor without any visible obstacles. Stiles carefully takes boiling teapot away from the stove. He shows by the gesture to Hale where he shall go further. From the street they hear the Mohammedan prayer, beaten glass is crunching under feet.  
They pass to the amenity premise with the rhythmic buzzing of the generator.  
\- Clear here, - tells Hale, putting rifle back.  
\- Cigarette still smolders, - Jackson approaches to the table with wires of different length and thickness, insulating tape, a nitrate ester in polyethylene packs, the box with literature describing the creation of self-made bombs, is standing farther.  
\- Here is our plunder, - Derek is going to call for the reinforcement, when suddenly hears Stiles, calling them to come.  
Stiles stands back towards them, with the lowered rifle.  
\- Oh, my… - Jackson holds his nose, trying not to inhale the smell of decaying.  
\- I know him, - Stiles’ voice does not change at all, - it’s Beckham, the boy who sells disks.  
The boy lies on a dirty table among lots of things. His eyes are opened and his face is covered by blood. His stomach looks a bit swollen. He was probably emboweled before filling of his interior with an explosive. It is sewn up by the wire - ugly curve line runs from the thorax to the bottom of stomach.  
\- Shit, - Derek whispers, slightly pressing the shoulder of Stilinski, – we have to get the fuck out of here.  
\- Jackson, take as much explosive and wires, as you can carry away. We will take it all out of here and blow it fucking up.  
When Hale and Whittmore leave, Stiles starts to put an explosive to stomach of the boy.  
He tries not to look into the face of Beckham, his fingers shiver and it is hard for him to breathe deeply – the virtual lump is moving to the throat.  
\- No, - he whispers in a very little voice.  
Stiles closes his eyes and speaks into the walkie-talkie:  
\- Cancel the explosion.  
He palpate first hands, then feet of the boy; takes out jackknife and shakes palms before cutting off the first stitch. He wipes bitter sweat from the forehead and quickly finishes other stitches. Stiles holds the half of face when the sweetish putrid smell floats to his nose. He opens edges of the flesh wide and thrusts hands into the stomach. He breathes through the mouth: quickly and abruptly, trying not to turn himself inside out vomiting.  
Stilinski pulls out from the decaying interior the explosive strongly wrapped in the insulating tape.  
\- I leave, - speaks Stiles into the walkie-talkie.  
\- Roger that, - the voice of Hale is answering him.  
He wraps Beckham up in a wide piece of cloth, picks up and goes to the exit. Stiles does not feel his own tears.  
Outside the house he gives the child to some local men.  
\- Let’s go, - says Stilinski jumping into the humvee, wiping sour smack of vomiting from his lips, but now it worries him the least. The base meets them keeping silent.

In the shower Stiles feels confined. He is standing under cold streams, not taking out his camouflage. He just threw off the helmet under feet.  
He slides down to the floor by the tiled wall, embarrassedly clambering up against the faucet which is not able to hold his weight and bends downwards. Stiles looks at the funnel with fading pinkish water – blood from the body of Beckham slowly disappears. He nestles his face into knees, slams his ears strongly and closes eyes. He shouts, straining a voice till the hoarse rattle, up to dry spasms in a throat.  
Stilinski punches the tiled wall, breaking fingers knuckles to hell, not feeling the pain. He also does not feel cold hands of Derek, clasping him across the chest, and his sharp noisy breath down his neck. He feels nothing.  
\- He was better than Beckham, - Stiles rattles, as if he is dying, - he was better than all of them!  
\- Hush, hush, he really was the best. Hold on, listen? Please, - Derek cuddles Stilinski, not allowing him to move, enswathe by his own body – he wants to hurt himself, but not Stiles.  
\- Nobody left with me, - he speaks, swallowing the whipping water.  
Derek winds his head, holding Stilinski, who bends in the shape of unimaginable curve.  
\- I am here, boy, you have me here, - he furiously whispers in reply. And Stiles finally relaxes in Hale’s hands.  
Coming out from the shower in wet heavy clothes, no one of them switched off the water.

There are twelve days till the end of campaign.

*

\- Why Beckham is not with you? - Stiles stands opposite to the overweight man who was selling disks here together with the boy.  
He shakes his head and waves by hands, obviously trying to tell that understands nothing from the sergeant’ speech.  
\- You do not understand, yeah? The boy selling DVDs.  
\- Eh, DVD, one - five dollar, two – nine, three - thirtee...  
\- Fuck! - Stiles loses his temper and gave up trying.  
He approaches to the soldier standing at the entry to sellers’ tents.  
\- Why you allow them to trade here? - he points towards the tent which he just left. - I have written in my official report that this person can have the relation with the mined building of the abandoned school. Why nobody checked him?  
\- There was no commander’s order, as well as interdiction for trade, he just sells disks, - he answers.  
\- Holy shit! We even don’t know against whom we are fighting. We do not know who our enemy is. Civilians, women, even children become the target for our guns. Why the fuck it concerns nobody?!  
Stiles leaves, not looking how other military men stare at him.

There are ten days till the end of campaign.

*

Stiles is coming late to the wedding of Erica. But it is not disappointing him at all. There are no importunate flies at home. And he is not pursued by the sweetish smell of decaying body anymore.  
In the morning Stilinski starts his old jeep and leaves the city. He sleeps badly at nights. But Stiles it sure that Derek will help him to resolve this problem. He promised.


End file.
